A Ball Of Rugs Poem by Hannington Mumo

Life is but a mere mass of perennial days,
You live a day and it reduces one bit;
You go on with your wayward wanton ways,
A week is over and the mass looks so small.

Whether you sleep or walk or imbibe fine whiskeys,
The mass looks ever smaller and smaller;
It does not matter what you do day after day,
But you can't bribe the clock with a dollar.

And when finally the ball dwindles until it's no more,
You may feel some headache or some pain on the back;
As Azrael descends to bear you to your eternal rest,
Or wherever goes the folks who kick the sack.

So you have your untouched ball of rugs at birth;
Steal if you have the guts or pray if you have the grace,
Build huge castles or dine and wine if a gourmet,
And trust the ball's end to cut short your race…